


The small things

by AppleOfEris



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Demon Bucky Barnes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, POV Bucky Barnes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 21:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18786982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleOfEris/pseuds/AppleOfEris
Summary: Hydra meddle with things far beyond their comprehension, and Bucky pays the price.An au to the first Captain America, where Bucky manages to grab ahold of the train instead of falling off. A couple days later, him and Steve go down into the ice together, irreversibly changing the future.





	The small things

It feels like it’s been years since the war started. I can count the number of months I’ve been out here on one hand, yet that night at the carnival with Steve feels like a life time ago.

I stare down at my hands. I can hardly see them in the fading light, but I know exactly what they look like today; calloused, muddy and covered with the phantom blood of my first kill. I shudder, and try not to think of my mom, my sisters or even Stevie, because then all I can think of is the look of horror on their faces.

I shot an innocent man today. Sure, he was a solder; he wore a helmet upon his head and a swastika across his arm like any other German. I made the mistake of looking past his clothes, which marked him as the enemy. I glanced at his face, which was young and terrified. There was no murderous resolve in his eyes, only the infant terror of a boy too young to die. It was too late by that point… my bullet was already hurtling through time and space towards him. I didn’t miss, though I didn’t think I would. Back at the training camp I proved myself to be “the best damn sniper there was”. I guess today I started living up to that name.

I pull the blanket tight around me and try to imagine Steve is here. I picture him beside me, sitting on the hard floor and resting his weary head on my shoulder. The image is equally comforting and upsetting.

I wonder if Steve would have taken the shot. He probably would, I realize uncomfortably. Steve would trust that America couldn’t lead us astray, that the land of freedom would never aim us at anything less then the vilest of villains to shoot. His unwavering patriotism and trust would vanquished the gnawing guilt I’m currently suffering from.

I wonder what he’s doing right now.  
…

I thought I was in hell. Turns out that even being glorified cannon fodder is better than a prisoner of war. I’ve been here for at least a week, though it could be more. Every day they take someone new, and we listen to them scream and cry as they get carried off. No one ever comes back.

The prison guards don’t speak, or show their faces. A couple nights back a group of men joked that they were actually aliens posing as Germans, taking men to cut them open and figure out how they worked. The thought was amusing till the sun went down, and images of red eyed, green-faced monsters haunted our sleep. The more time I spend here, the more plausible it seems.

The lights buzz on above us. Two men stroll in, their movements unnaturally mirrored. Other prisoners shuffle slowly awake, and watch with vacant eyes as they glide through the warehouse, towards their next victim. I look away, like I always do. I keep my breathing calm by picturing Stevie. His face comes to me with more clarity than I can recall my own. He smiles down at me like a glorious angel; the only thing in my life I can still call good.

A key clangs into the lock of my cell, and I screw my eyes closed harder, trying to stop his image from flickering.

A rough hand grabs my arm, and I swallow bile. This is it. My last chance to put up a fight. I leap into motion, my eyes flying open and my fist hurtling towards the face of the guard. It connects with a sickening crunch. The guards head hardly moves, but my wrist bone shatters. Within a second its other hands is soaring towards my head, and I black out on impact.

…

I wake up to a disconcerting numbness. I open my eyes to find white, windowless room.

“Hello,” someone croons, and I jump at the sound of their voice. I scan the room, but can’t see anyone.

“Where are you,” I demand, but my voice trembles.

“Inside your head,” it informs me jauntily, “And your certainly the best one I’ve seen so far.”

I struggle to comprehend what it means. I’m so tired and confused, I wish I could just go back to sleep.

“Don’t stress, little one, all these worrying feeling will be gone soon enough,” it sighs deeply, “Let’s get on with it then.”

I suddenly see movement in the far corner of the room. A small bundle that I didn’t notice earlier is lying on the floor. I approach it cautiously, hesitant to touch the bundle and reveal its contents.

“Go on then,” the voice grouches, and I startle. “We don’t have all that much time before they assume the process failed. You need to pick it up for this to work.”

“For what-“ my voice catches and I swallow thickly. “For what to work?”

“For us to escape of course,” it whispers. “I’ve been trapped here for so long I can feel my soul turning dark. They’ve been using my own energy against me, channeling it to the bonds that hold me, and using it to make demon solders. If you could just pick up that bundle, we’ll both get out of here alive.”

It sounds like a pretty good deal to my extremely depraved mind. I reach down slowly and cradle the bundle in my arms. It feels somewhat like a baby inside.

“What are you?” I ask, carefully drawing the rags away from the small child’s face.

“A demon,” it says, and I drop the bundle in horror as a red eyed, sharp toothed, horned child is revealed instead of the baby I was expecting. The room around me shatters like glass and I slip from consciousness once again.

…

At first I’m not sure what wakes me. My body is numb, and my ears ring loud enough to muffle out all other sound.

“Bucky, Bucky let’s go,” someone says, his voice sounding so much likes Steve’s I know I must be hallucinating.

Strong arms tug me into a sitting position. I open my eyes to a face that looks so much like his that I start to cry.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” I rasp, reaching out to touch the phantom. It looks so similar to Steve, except strong and healthy, like his soul would look. I wonder if that means I’m dead. I start to cry harder.

“Bucky, it’s okay, you’re, fine, I’m here to get you out.” He rambles, and my fingers tighten around his clothes. I don’t think the real Steve has ever seen me cry. He would probably freak out if he saw me like this too.

Phantom Steve picks me up in his arms, bridal style. I press my nose against his neck and breath in deeply.

“You even smell like him,” I choke around my sobs, “I just want to back to him, I want to go home. ” I’m running out of air in my lungs to cry and talk. My whole body trembles, and fake Steve holds me tightly. 

“We’re going h-home,” he stutters, and my heart aches for this to be him, the real Steve, saving me in the moment I truly gave up hope. With that thought, the world fades out of focus again.

…  
I decide I’m tired of waking up like this; tired, disconcerted and afraid. Even as my senses slowly return, as I become aware of quiet nighttime sounds around me and the blanket above me , I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I don’t want to wake up and confront yet more confusion and pain. So I keep very still and pray to return to the comfort of the darkness.

“Bucky?”

I flinch, then grimace at having given myself away. It just sounded too much like Steve to not react. I guess this is another dream, then.

“Hey, Buck it’s okay. It’s me, Steve.” The voice is coaxing and gentle, so familiar in every way. 

I shake my head. It’s not Steve, I tell myself, it can’t be. Steve is safe, a world away from this terrible war. Steve is small and delicate, and couldn’t pick himself up on bad days, let alone a man twice his size.

“I know I look different, but I swear it’s me.” He says, sounding unsure. “After you left I tried signing up, one last time. A scientist was there… he chose me for an experiment. It made me stronger, bigger. I look different but that’s all, I swear,” his voice trembles weakly, “It’s still me, Buck. Just-just look at me… please.”

I can’t help it; I look. The face is still Steve’s, just wider, more masculine. I reach out and run my hand through his hair. It’s softer than I remember, though just as brilliant in color. Finally I meet his eyes. Soft blue orbs stare imploring into mine, and something in my chest clicks in place.

“Steve?” I warble, my throat parched from disuse.

“Yes!” he gushes, covering my entire hand with his. I can’t help but stare at it, since I never imagined he’d be able to do so. I look back at his face, to see tears streaking down his cheeks. I realize with a deep seated surety that this is real, that it’s really Steve that I see before me. He was always the more emotional one of the two of us.

“Steve!” I cry, and pull him firmly into my arms. “How- how are you here?” 

But he’s crying so hard he can no longer talk, so I hush him gently and run my hand through his gorgeous hair. Quiet tears of relief run down my face. I’m safe, I’m here, this is real. 

… 

After Steve calms down, he begins to explain everything. He tells me about a crazy German scientist who made him a superhero (though he didn’t use those words). He tells me about his days as a movie star, collecting funds for the war. He explains that when he heard my division had been captured, he knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to find me. 

When that’s over, he starts questioning me. I tell him most of what I remember, but leave out descriptions of the debilitating fear and vivid hallucinations. I don’t want him to think less of me than he already does. 

We sit in silence for a while, pondering everything. 

“What now,” I ask him. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” he says, coming an absent hand through his hair as he leans back. We’re sitting in a small tent, one which we’ve agreed to share for the night. 

“I thought about building up a squad of people, taking down hydra bases as a unit. Maybe when your feeling better, you could be our sniper.” I glance over at him and my stomach twists painfully. It looks so wrong, so weird to see Steve like this. He’s just so big, I miss the way he used to look so soft and gentle, almost like a dame. I used to think about him like that sometimes, that he looked so much like a girl it wouldn’t really be that wrong if we-

“Bucky?” 

His voice breaks through my thoughts with a jolt. 

“Yeah” I hear myself saying, even though going straight back into war is the last thing I want, “I’d like that,”

He grins so beautifully its almost worth it. 

“Great,” he says, “I’ll speak to the General, get a group of solders together and plot our next move.”

“Cant wait,” I exhale deeply and lie back on the stretcher. It’s been so long since I had something soft to lie on. 

“For now I think I just need to rest,” I say. I feel completely drained, like someone removed my insides with an ice cream scoop. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he says somberly, standing up slowly. He walks to the tent flap, and pauses. 

“I’m glad your okay, Bucky… I don’t think I’ll ever learn how to live without you. ” he says, and leaves before I can respond. 

…  
It’s days later that I remember about my wrist. I stare down, at it, bend and flex it, and try and rationalize how it can possibly not be broken. I remember it snapping, it wasn’t a dream. But it must have been, even though I was so sure it wasn’t. If I imagined that, how much more wasn’t real? Is this even real? I start to hyperventilate, and thank God I’m alone in the tent this morning. I’ve been so good at acting put together for Steve, I would hate for him to see me now. 

I look down at my wrist again. Maybe I didn’t break it, it just felt broken because I was to hyped up. Yes, I think with all the conviction I can muster, that’s what happened. 

Steve chooses that moment to walk in. He’s dressed in his captain America get-up again, which stopped smelling of roses a couple days ago. 

“Hey, Buck, how you feeling?” he asks gently. I hate how small this new Steve makes me feel. I’m used to being the one protecting him. 

“Better,” I tell him firmly, “Well enough to go off and save the world with a superhero anyway.”

He blushes like he always does when I call him that. 

“You sure? There’s no rush Buck, take as long as you need.” He assures me. It’s a lie though. His fingers are basically twitching with anticipation. He wants to get out there, fight, make a real difference to the world. I want to go home, and take him with me. 

“I’m ready,” I lie, “And God help anything that dares to stand in our way.”

… 

“Hello old friend,” a voice coos. 

I wake with a jolt. I’m back inside the white room. I scan the floor for the bundle, but instead my eyes land on a… I’m not sure what it is. In some ways it resembles a man, it’s body looks normal, as does the shape of its face. That’s largely where the similarities end. It’s skin is porcelain white. Large canines protrude from its smirking lips. It’s eyes are wide, and the irises glow crimson. On its back sit two enormous wing, which twitch and sway with a life of their own. It walks towards me, it’s clawed nails clicking against the smooth tiles with every step. I notice a barbed tail swinging behind it, and press myself even closer up against the wall. 

“You’ve been a wonderful host,” it chortles, smiling down at me, “Truly wonderful. I kept to my side of the deal… you escaped the war camp alive, and I even gave you time to recuperate. Unfortunately we’re now in a bit of a tricky situation.”

The demon crouches down in front of me. It smells like week old sweat and drying blood. My stomach churns with frightful disgust.  
“You’re soul and my power seemed to take a bit of a liking to each other. They’re stuck together quite firmly now, impossible to separate. I’m afraid that means I’m going to have to absorb you, and leave you’re hollow corpse behind.”

I stare at him blankly. I still haven’t fully comprehended this as actually happening. 

He sighs disappointedly , “Not the dramatic response I was hoping for, so I suppose I’ll just get this over with.”

He pounces towards me, and I roll out of the way with an inch to spare. I scramble up and sprint to the opposite corner of the room. Even if it’s a dream, I can feel my heart pounding, my chest burning, and the blood rushing in my ears. My fingers twitch with the desire to pick up some kind of weapon. 

“Come on little mouse,” he sings, stalking closer to me once more, “I let you have your fun, even let you see your blond friend one last time. I’ve been very gracious, as far as demons go.” 

Steve, I think distantly, what about Steve… 

The demon has almost reached me. My heart is pounding like the hoof falls of a thousand horses. His pointed nails gleam like knives as he stretches out his hands. 

Knives, I think desperately, if I just had a knife… 

He pounces, hurtling towards me like a sniper bullet. At the last moment my hand tightens around something hard. I duck under his claws and drive a- a knife hilt-deep into his back. 

He screams a monstrous scream, his body withering and contorting on the marble floor. He makes a desperate lunge towards my leg, catching the exposed skin of my heel. I pull my leg away, and drive it down through his head. It caves like cheap plastic beneath my foot, and the world once again shatters around me. 

...  
I wake up screaming. Steve has pulled me onto his lap, and is frantically rocking me side to side, murmuring assurances into my ear. 

“Sorry,” I croak, my throat raw and dry. 

Steve jumps. His eyes are wide and manic, and they flash with thinly veiled terror.  
“Thank God,” he says in a horse voice, wrapping his arms tightly around me, and pulling me further onto his lap. 

“I’m so sorry, I knew it was too soon to leave camp, Bucky I’m so sorry…” he wheezes, and I realize he’s crying. 

He’s still the same, overemotional Steve, I think with no small amount of comfort. Even if he is now big enough to cradle me in his lap. 

“It was just a nightmare about a bad dream I had when I was prisoner,” I try to reassure him, “I’m fine, I swear, just kinda embarrassed I woke you up,”

Steve tucks his head into the crook of my neck and breaths deeply.  
“I missed you when you were gone,” he says softly, “I l-love you and I just want you to be okay.”

My heart swells. Of course I knew Steve loves me, it’s just not the type of thing men usually say to each other. I hesitate a moment, long enough that I almost loose the courage to say it back. The dream flashes before my eyes, how even when I was sure I was going to die, Steve was the last thing I thought of. 

“Yeah yeah, I love you too, you sap,” I scoff, relaxing gratefully into his open arms and warm chest. I try not think about how wrong it is to feel so happy when we’re together like this.  
“We should probably get back to sleep.” I whisper. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, but makes no move towards his bed. Instead, he leans back until he’s lying down, then curled his massive body around so that I’m lying solely on him. His arms are still around me, holding me snugly against him. 

“Stevie-” I start to say, but he shushes me. 

“It’s just like at home, when it’s cold and I’m sick. You’d hold me like this, keep me safe and warm. Didn’t mean anything then,” his voice wavers in volume, like he’s fighting to stay awake. 

It means something now, I want to tell him. But I don’t, because I want him to stay, and keep me safe and warm in a way I’ve never appreciated until this moment. 

“Okay,” I whisper, and allow myself to slip off to sleep along with him. 

I wake up feeling better than I have in months. Steve left sometime last night, for his night watch shift. He’s still not back yet, which means he’s probably helping one of the guys with breakfast. I sit up and feel a faint ache I my spine. Probably from the weird sleeping position, it think, rubbing my coccyx where the pain was most concentrated. 

I hear approaching footsteps from outside, and have a brief moment of panic. What if Steve regrets last night, and it made it weird, and he says he doesn’t need me anymore because all I’ve ever been good for is keeping him healthy and now he’s permanently healthy and-

“Hey,” he chirps, poking his head through the tent flap and grinning at me widely, “Ready for breakfast?”

“Yes,” I grin back, relief coursing through me, “Breakfast.”

 

…  
My spine has increased in pain over the last couple of days. We’ve already taken down two Hydra bases, and destroyed dozens of their traveling armored vehicles. I was right about my initial assessment of Steve all those months ago; his patriotism and faith in America’s goodness provide a shield for all the guilt he would otherwise feel. I wish I could be that unwavering in belief. 

My spine gives a particularly painful jolt, and a grunt of pain escapes me. Steve, who is trekking through the forest beside me, sends a look of concern. 

“I’m fine,” I snap, a bit too harshly for it to be believable, “I’m just stiff,”

He looks at me skeptically, but doesn’t say anything. I look away, feeling frustrated and angry. There’s been so much on my mind lately, I feel like I’m slowly loosing it. 

“We should stop here for the night,” Steve says abruptly. The Hydra base is only half a days walk from here, and we don’t want to set camp too close by.”

I nod mutely, still deep in thought. We set up tents, and two men go off to find water. Our bags are still brimming with supplies since we were only dropped of yesterday. When the men return with water, I help Steve prepare somewhat of a feast; fresh meat, dried fruit and baked beans. We work side by side in silence preparing the food. 

By the time every thing is eaten, my back is hurting so badly I can hardly move. I try filter it out of my movements and voice, but I know Steve has noticed somethings wrong. With a quick apology, I stand and hobble off to bed. I climb under the sheets, and press my eyes shut in desperation to sleep. 

…  
Night has descended in its entirety, and I still can’t sleep. The pain is so bad I can hardly breath. I feel sickly beads of sweat pouring off me. I try not to think about what caused this… if the demon was real and somehow survived and is now ready to kill me when I can’t fight it back. 

“Bucky?” I hear Steve’s voice distantly. His night watch shift must have just ended, “Buck are you okay?” 

I open my mouth to reply when suddenly I feel a loud crack in my spine. Then another and another, as though each vertebra of my spine is being trampled on. 

It stops just as abruptly as it started. I want to cry in relief, but I still feel too stiff to move. 

“Bucky, I think I know what’s happening to you!” Steve exclaims, and I cringe at his volume. 

“How could you possibly know?” I snarl, thoughts of rituals and demons running through my head. 

“This is going to sound insane,” he cautions, sitting down on the edge of my bed, “For as long as I can remember, I’ve always drawn, certain things…that aren’t mine,”

I frown at him, “How can they not be yours if you drew them?” I snap. 

“Look,” he says, climbing off my bed and shuffling around his bad. He withdraws a sketch book, and removes a loose paper from within. 

“I drew this when I was 15,” he says triumphantly. 

I look at the picture and gasp. It’s not perfect, but the resemblance is unmistakable; Steve drew a healthy muscled super hero Steve nearly a decade before the serum was even invented. 

“Coincidence?” I suggest weakly. He shakes his head. 

“I’ve drawn others that have come true over the last couple months. And one was of you right now, in this very moment, with…”

He strides towards me and pulls back my blanket. 

“… That,” he points. 

I slowly turn to look. Lying behind me, twitching innocently, is a tail. I open my mouth to scream and Steve slams his hand over my mouth. 

“Just stay calm, okay? It’s not a big deal. I think a part of me has known about it for years,” he says looking contemplative. 

I yank his hand off, and try not to freak out. A tail. I guess this means my dreams were real… I really did have a demon inside of me. I start to hyperventilate. I killed the demon though, I smashed its head in. Why would I magically grow a tail identical to it, unless… my soul and its power. I remember it saying we merged, somehow tight enough that he couldn’t remove one without destroying the other. When he died… I stare down at my tail with newly awoken horror… he must have left his demon powers behind. Hence the tail. Oh God. 

Steve grabs my hand.  
“Just breathe, okay? I know this is scary for you, just focus on breathing. Your okay, Buck, it’s gonna be okay.” 

I find myself nodding, “Yeah, okay. Just a demon tail, no big deal.” 

“Demon tail?” Steve asks, and my stomach drops. This will be the breaking point for Steve, surely. He believes too much in God to not hate a demon. I explain everything slowly, finally putting to words the hellish nightmare which I was so sure to be a concoction of my insanity. 

“Bucky,” Steve says when I’m finished, “You’ll never be a monster, I swear you won’t. I know you, and no force in heaven or hell would be strong enough to tarnish your soul. I swear it with everything I am, and everything I will be.”

My hands are trembling, so I press them down on my thighs.  
“Thanks Steve,” I say weakly, despite being unable to fully believe him, “You have no idea how incredible you are.” 

“Well I am captain America,” he says sarcastically, “Anything less would be a national disappointment.”

He sits down beside me, and bumps his shoulder against mine. I laugh, and for the first time in weeks, my crippling pain eases. 

 

…  
“What are you doing?” I snap. It’s been a week since the “tail incident” and Steve has taken an immense liking to my fifth appendage. 

We’ve returned back to civilization after another successful raid. We get a one week stay in this basic hotel in a quaint village before heading off once more. I’m sitting at a table trying to read, while Steve sits beside me writing official reports. Except he keeps getting distracted by the sway of my tail, and ends up staring at it for long minutes at I time. 

“Will you just stop looking at it!?” I snarl, and it snaps to the side to reflect my irritation. (I’m definitely gonna have to cover it for poker games) 

“Sorry,” he sighs unapologetically.  
“It’s just not fair. I’ve seen it for years in my art, but now that it’s actually here you won’t let me touch it.”

I don’t want him to touch it for many reasons. One is that the reality might settle in if he does, and he’ll realize he’s actually not okay with his best friend being part demon. Two, I know that it can be weirdly… sensitive. Because if the first reason doesn’t scare him off, the reaction to my second one should. 

“Just because your used to it doesn’t mean I am,” I say softly, feeling weirdly emotional. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, sensing my tone, “Sorry I pushed. I’m just so used to it, I keep forgetting you aren’t.” 

My tail starts inching towards Steve, so I grab it and hold it self-consciously. It feels warm in my hands, dark scales creating sharp ridges that disrupt its otherwise smooth surface. 

“It’s fine,” I say, struggling to meet his eyes, “Better than fine, really. I don’t think I could have asked for a more positive response to my budding demon hood than casual familiarity.” 

Steve’s hand grips my shoulder, and I startle.  
“Really, Bucky, I’m here for you. You just have to tell me what you need.” He says. 

My eyes dampen at the sincerity in his voice, “Yeah I know.”  
I don’t think I could have found a better friend. 

My teeth throb for the hundredth time this week, and I do my best to ignore them. 

 

…  
The fucking tail saved me. Holy shit. I sit, trembling like a leaf in hurricane winds, after escaping that damn train. I almost died. Never have I clung to anything as tightly as I did the side of that train. Yet it would have been for naught had my tail not pierced through the metal floor, giving me just enough support to pull myself back up. 

I glance at Steve, who looks almost worse off than I do. His sculpted face is pale and clammy, and his massive hands shake against his thighs. 

“Hey Captain,” I say, nudging is shoulder enquiringly, “You alive in there?” 

“You almost died,” he whispers brokenly, “You would have died, had it not been for… well. I failed you today, Buck.” His voice sounds paper thin. I glance around to see if anyone’s looking, before grabbing his hand. 

“No, you didn’t. You did everything you could, and it all turned out fine in the end. Don’t beat yourself up about this, Steve.”

He looks at me miserably, and squeezes my hand.  
“I’m just happy your okay,” he chokes, and tears start rolling down his cheeks. I roll my eyes fondly. Steve has always been the emotional one; if it’s anger he feels fury, if it’s injustice he feels righteousness. And if it’s sadness, he feels heartbreak. 

My canines ache, and I can feel the tips sharpen ever so slightly. This has started every time I feel uncommonly strong emotions. I ignore it in favor of rubbing Steve’s back. 

“It’ll all be okay,” I tell him firmly, “It’ll all be okay.”

 

 

Steve’s POV. 

The plane is going down, and all I can see is Buck, lying unconscious on the floor beside be, the majority of his right arm having been severed off. Black dots plague my vision. I try blink them away, but my eyes end up drying out from the speed at which we are hurtling to the ground. I distantly realize I am in shock. Miles away, I hear Agent Carters voice on the coms, but it really doesn’t seem that important. 

Because all I can see is Bucky,  
Bucky,  
Bucky,  
Bucky,  
Bucky,  
Bu--

**Author's Note:**

> I'll write a 2nd chapter if enough people are interested.


End file.
